


all the darkest parts

by paravin



Series: down this broken line [2]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Corruption, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Horror, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29659077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paravin/pseuds/paravin
Summary: After the defeat of the High Celebrant, Crow, Osiris and the Guardian begin having strange dreams. Crow goes to Osiris to try to figure out what it means.
Relationships: The Crow & Osiris (Destiny), The Crow & The Spider (Destiny)
Series: down this broken line [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206470
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	all the darkest parts

**Author's Note:**

> slightly experimental approach here, and basically just me trying to have my cake and eat it between regular canon, which I love, and alternate paths canon could have taken. I will go back to more regular h/c and pwps soon!
> 
> noncon warning is for a brief section towards the middle involving Spider. there’s no explicit sex in this but the violence level is a bit heavier than my usual so please heed the tags.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t just come back tomorrow?”

It’s the third time Crow’s asked the same question and Osiris gives the same answer as he presses a cup of hot tea into his hands, “We have the Cabal to deal with tomorrow. Besides, we should deal with this now, while it’s still fresh.”

Perched cross-legged on Osiris’ couch, Crow takes the tea gladly. “I think some of it’s already faded since last night. I’m not good at remembering my dreams. The usual ones, at least.”

He doesn’t need to clarify further. After their work on the Shore, dealing with the cryptoliths and delving into the Ascendant Plane, Osiris is more than familiar with the unusual dreams that followed. They linger like fog sometimes, a thin film coating his mind, and even after weeks of research, he still hasn’t found a reliable solution.

“Just tell me what you remember,” he says, settling in his favorite chair. His notebook is almost full, stuffed with his own scrawled recollections and reports from both Crow and the Guardian, but he flips to a blank page as he reminds him, “As much detail as you can. Nothing-”

“-is too unimportant,” Crow finishes. “I remember.” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know if this was one of the useful ones. There was nothing about Savathun, or Xivu Arath, or the Black Fleet, anything like that.”

Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, the dream was still bad enough to disturb his sleep, and Osiris aims for reassuring as he says, “Let me be the judge of what’s useful.”

The Guardian’s normal dreams are generally enjoyable affairs — although Osiris is still haunted by their retelling of a particularly explicit fantasy involving Lord Saladin — but even without the involvement of dark forces, Crow’s dreams are often unpleasant. 

He doesn’t know whether that’s a consequence of Crow’s circumstances to date or a hold-over from his previous life, but either way, he’s glad Saint’s away for the evening when Crow admits, “It was about Spider.”

Osiris nods. “If it was just memories, you don’t need to disclose the details.”

“No, I-” Crow’s fingers flex in frustration as he tries to find the right words. “It wasn’t _just_ memories, if that makes sense. Things were different. The Guardian…”

“Take your time,” Osiris says, pen in hand. “Start from the beginning.”  


—|—

  
“It’s done.”

“So it is,” Spider says. There’s a rare satisfaction in his voice and Crow can’t help the flutter of pride at the knowledge that he helped play a part in the Guardian’s accomplishment. “So it is. All right, Guardian. As promised, you can have a prized bauble from my lair as compensation for your… heroics.”

The offer is generous, particularly by Spider’s standards. Even the stashes Crow’s been permitted to see contain a number of priceless items and so he isn’t sure why he’s surprised when the Guardian says, “I want the grenade launcher you keep in the back. Maverick’s Gauge, was it?”

It’s a good choice. It’s a predictable choice too, enough that he and Glint had picked that days ago as one of the prizes most likely to interest the Guardian, but Crow can’t help the dark ripple of disquiet at the decision.

Still, he hasn’t been asked to speak and so he stays by the wall in obedient silence as the Spider and the Guardian make their deal and bid their farewells. 

It’s not that he _expects_ anything else — his time with Spider has taught him the dangers of having expectations — but his heart aches when the Guardian doesn’t even glance in his direction as they exit, inspecting the new weapon with glee.

There’s a soft hum at the back of his skull, low and soothing, and Crow tries to focus on what he assumes is Glint’s attempt at comfort instead of the awful disappointment settling in his chest.

He should be glad, he reminds himself. Thanks to the Guardian, he isn’t trapped in the Ascendant Plane and the High Celebrant is dead. He’s alive, and safe, and still has Glint. He’d be a fool to hope for anything more.

“Crow,” Spider barks. 

He clicks his fingers and Crow steps in front of the throne, bowing his head. “What do you require, my Baron?”

The pause lasts long enough that Crow worries he’s done something wrong, but for once there’s no anger in his tone when Spider says, “You and the Guardian have done well. You took your time with it but that’s one more nuisance off my Shore, at last.”

The compliment takes him by surprise and Crow risks a glance up. “Thank you, Baron.”

“Such diligent work deserves a reward,” Spider says. “I’m not unreasonable, after all.” Another snap of his fingers. “Arrha, give my little bird double rations for the next week.”

Crow lowers his head again in gratitude. 

The hum at the back of his head builds, twisting into irritation at the promised reward, and Crow has to clench his teeth to tamp it down. He knows it’s unfair, the Guardian being gifted a one-of-a-kind weapon while Crow is rewarded with a full stomach for the first time in months, but he’s learned to take his victories where he can find them.

“I’m glad to be of service, my Baron,” he murmurs, eyes on the ground. 

Spider huffs in acknowledgement. “I don’t expect you to just sit around, mind you. The High Celebrant may be gone but the cryptoliths still need to be removed from my Shore.”

“Of course,” Crow says, “I’ll continue to clear out the Wrathborn until the cryptoliths are gone.”

Spider’s rumble is one of approval. “Dismissed.”

With one last bow, Crow retreats to his quarters. The room seems smaller now, the rattle of the ether pipes even louder, and he braces against his workbench as he tries to ignore the churning unease in his stomach.

“Crow?” Glint pops into existence at his shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Crow lies. He tries for a smile. “Today went well. Spider’s pleased.”

“Maybe the Guardian will still come by to visit?” Glint asks hopefully. “Or Osiris? Spider might let him continue to train you.”

Crow’s gaze catches on the uneven bob of Glint’s movement, weighed down by the bomb, and he blinks back the prickle of tears. For a moment, he hates them all equally, Spider for condemning him to this life, and Osiris and the Guardian for giving him even the faintest taste of freedom, but he pushes it back down again as he reaches out to cup Glint’s shell.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly. “What else do I need?”  


———

  
The Wrathborn hunts get easier.

Crow isn’t sure whether the corruption is weakening in the absence of the High Celebrant or whether he’s just getting stronger, but he has no complaints either way. His Light feels easier to access now, easier to mold into whatever form of death he wishes to bring today, but there’s a chill sometimes when he reaches for it. 

At his feet, Skorlis tries to crawl away, the sickly green energy of the cryptolith seeping from his skin. A shotgun round to the back of the head would finish it but Crow grasps for his light instead. It’s like reaching through ice water for a burning poker, and even as the golden gun appears in his hands, Crow can’t keep from shivering.

He kicks Skorlis onto his back and aims down the sights as what used to be an Eliksni snarls up at him.

Crow knows him. He’s shared drinks with him, traded ammo, has even met his children, but he pulls the trigger without hesitation. The body is motionless by the time the clip is empty, smoke rising up from the slugs that seared through him, but Crow doesn’t bother to close Skorlis’ eyes as he heads for the exit. 

“It’s still so horrible,” Glint says, “seeing them like this.”

“It’s been getting easier,” Crow admits. “Perhaps because I’ve been the one getting my hands dirty all the time now, instead of relying on the Guardian. There are still more Wrathborn around than I expected.”

Glint hums in agreement. “I thought the corruption was supposed to stop once the High Celebrant was dead, but the ones lately just seem more…”

“Violent,” Crow says with a grimace. “Maybe they feel like they have to offer tribute to Xivu Arath in some other way?”

“By killing people as messily as possible?” Glint makes a disgusted noise. “Why don’t any Hive gods just want a nice bouquet of flowers as tribute?”

Crow laughs. “If we ever find a Hive god suggestion box, remind me to leave a note to ask.”

The sun is low when they clamber up out of the cave, casting long shadows across the purpling dirt, and Crow glances to Glint. “What time-”

“Twenty minutes after Spider told us to get back,” Glint says quietly.

Cursing under his breath, Crow sprints for his sparrow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were in the middle of a fight!” Glint points out as Crow guns the engine. “I don’t think Spider wants us back on time anyway.”

He isn’t wrong, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear out loud. 

The Wrathborn aren’t the only ones on the Shore who’ve been growing more violent over the past weeks. Spider’s slaps have turned to punches; backhands previously intended to discipline or humiliate are now delivered with enough force to crack bone; and Crow’s grown accustomed to being whipped bloody for any slight, real or perceived. His demands are stricter, holding Crow on an ever-tightening leash, and most days it feels like punishment is Spider’s goal rather than a possible consequence.

Glint is silent and hidden by the time Crow makes it back to Spider’s lair with a handful of new scrapes on his sparrow. Crow’s thigh aches where Skorlis’ blade landed a lucky strike but he runs through the hallways anyway to where Spider is waiting, secure in his throne.

“Late again, little bird?”

Crow goes to his knees in contrition. “The fight lasted longer than I expected, Baron. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s happened twice this week already,” Spider warns. “It seems like my Lightmonger is struggling to learn his lesson.”

Crow bites his tongue to hold back his retort. The unfairness of it burns and something itches at the corner of his eye as he glances up at his benefactor. 

Between the disapproval pouring off Spider in waves and the noose and hammer already in the eager hands of his henchmen, it’s clear enough what’s going to happen to him. For a long moment, Crow thinks of reaching for his Light, of repaying every death he’s met at Spider’s hands with a flaming bullet to the chest, but the sensation of grit in his eyes only gets worse when he locks the thoughts away again. 

Unwilling to risk Glint’s life with such recklessness, he bows low to the dirt and tries to brace for the pain as he whispers, “Whatever pleases you, Baron.”  


———

  
“Guardian?”

There’s a buzz but no answer on the other end of the comm line and Crow tastes blood in his throat as he tries to speak again, “Guardian, I don’t know if you can hear me but please…”

Glint hovers anxiously above him. Crow knows he’s dying — today’s beating went far beyond what Glint can heal — but he also knows it’s not his health which is making Glint so nervous.

“Are you sure about this?” Glint murmurs. “If Spider catches us...”

As far as transgressions go, unauthorised communication is a major one, but Crow’s been pushed long past his breaking point. He’s fairly certain Spider wouldn’t explode Glint for this, not when he’s been taking so much joy lately in killing Crow over and over and over, but for once, the prospect of a permanent end doesn’t scare him as much as it should.

“He won’t hurt you,” Crow promises. “I won’t let him.”

It’s a lie but he figures it’s a kind one, even when Glint doesn’t seem convinced.

The comm line buzzes again and Crow grits his teeth against the jagged tear of his broken ribs as he tries to speak, “Guardian, please. I know I have no right to ask anything of you but the situation here is getting worse.”

He doesn’t know what to say, how to pull together a compelling argument past the haze of agony that swamps him, and so the words come out in a tangled jumble. “Something’s wrong with Spider. He’s furious, all the time, no matter what I do. He’s killing his own men by the skiff-load.”

He bites back a groan of pain and pushes on. “The Wrathborn linger. The cryptoliths are quieter now but I still hear whispers. Something visits me in my dreams and it feels like the sky is growing darker.”

 _There’s something in my eyes_ , he doesn’t say.

It’s harder to draw breath and blood spills from the corners of his mouth as he begs, shame abandoned in favor of desperation, “Guardian, help me. _Please._ I know I’m not worth your time but I’ll do anything you ask. I can serve you like I served Spider. Just please-” His voice breaks on a sob. “I can’t do this anymore.”

There’s a long pause, broken only by the crackle of the comm, but Crow freezes when he hears the Guardian’s voice on the end of it. 

“We have other priorities,” they say, flat and cold, “and we have no use for you. Do not contact us again.”

The link goes dead. Crow doesn’t try to speak again.  


———

  
“Make yourself useful.”

Blood trickles down Crow’s arm, his bare shoulder still carrying the imprints of Spider’s teeth. The dull pain where Spider struck him across the face briefly drowns out the rest of his discomfort — the stinging in his eyes, the gnaw of hunger in his belly, the ache of bruises around his throat — and he forces himself back up to his knees to crawl obediently onto the bed. 

His stomach turns as Spider gestures between his thighs, and he gets another backhand for the split-second pause. His head pounds, his brain feeling like it’s been rattled loose, but as Spider’s hand curls in his hair, Crow lowers his head before he can be forced down into position.

Spider grunts with impatient encouragement as Crow braces his hands on the mattress. He’s done this dozens of times before, providing every kind of service Spider has ever asked of him, but as he takes a deep breath, Crow can’t bring himself to close the distance to take him in his mouth.

Spider’s grip on his hair tightens. “Get on with it.”

Crow doesn’t move. He can’t pinpoint what’s changed — Spider’s newfound brutality has been present in private as well as in public for weeks now, with Crow unable to pacify him in either location — but it’s like his spine is frozen, rigid and unbending even in the face of Spider’s fury.

“Worthless-”

The knife is in Crow’s hand before he can think. The flames of it are ice against his fingers, the solar glare bright in the gathering darkness, but it barely has a second to shine before Crow drives it up into Spider’s throat.

Spider’s eyes go wide. His four arms reach for Crow, flailing as he tries weakly to push him away, but Crow barely blinks as he puts his weight behind the knife to push it in deeper. Blood pours out, purple-blue gouts of it splattering over Crow’s face and body, and Crow can’t help but smile at the sight of Spider’s blood staining the sheets for once rather than his own.

Wet, terrified, _furious_ gurgles escape him, his body thrashing beneath Crow’s as every struggle only brings him closer to the end. Crow just watches, bloodied and silent, and the hum in the back of his skull sings its soft song with pride.

It’s almost an anticlimax when Spider’s body goes still.

He seems pathetic like this, head lolling back and throat carved open, so far from the untouchable creature who held Crow’s leash for years, and Crow rubs at his eyes as he stares down at him.

“Crow…”

There’s a horror in Glint’s voice he hasn’t heard before. (Or at least, a horror which has never been directed at him.) He’s still alive though — _how is he alive? how did Spider not explode him? why did Crow not do this the first time Spider brought him to his bed?_ — and so Crow can’t find the words to respond.

He slides off the bed, finds his pants and then finds his sword. 

“Crow,” Glint pleads, but the song is louder, _better_ , and Crow finds himself humming along as he hacks his way through the bone and sinew keeping Spider’s head atop his shoulders. 

It’s heavy, enough to make Crow’s arms ache as he hauls it out of the bedroom and through Spider’s lair, leaving dark trails of blood in his wake. The shock spreads through the guards like a wave, a repeating rhythm of open mouths, frozen weapons, and then mute acceptance, and no-one tries to stop Crow as he drags it to the entrance of the safehouse.

The High Celebrant’s skull is still on display as Spider’s unearned prize, and Crow enjoys the thrum of satisfaction as he mounts his own trophy next to it. 

It’s an odd display, enduring chitin next to a fleshy mass that was rotting long before Crow severed it, but Crow smiles as he steps back to admire his work.

The stinging in his eyes finally, _finally_ begins to fade at the sight.  


—|—

  
“That was all of it.” Crow’s face is pale as he looks up at Osiris but his eyes are still a steady gold. “I don’t know if any of that is useful? Obviously the Guardian wouldn’t- I mean, they didn’t-”

“They wouldn’t,” Osiris says firmly. “It was just a dream. None of us would leave you there with Spider.”

His mug of tea is empty but Crow’s hands are still curled around it as he nods. “I know. All of it felt wrong somehow. I hated Spider but I would never put Glint at risk like that by trying to kill him.”

Osiris pauses. “You don’t want Spider dead?”

He watches the emotions flicker across Crow’s face before he lands on an answer. “No.”

“No?”

“Not at the expense of Glint’s safety,” Crow amends. “He’s more important to me than revenge against Spider.”

“That’s no longer a binary choice,” Osiris says. “Glint is safe now, no matter what happens to Spider.”

Crow doesn’t meet his eyes as he gives a tiny shrug. “I- I never want to go back to Spider but I’m not a murderer. Not anymore.”

It takes a second for Osiris to realise he’s talking about his work for Spider, rather than his previous life, and he nods. “Understandable. I suspect a man as powerful as the Spider wouldn’t be so easy to take out as your dream might suggest.”

Crow just shrugs again and Osiris sets his notebook aside. “You should get some sleep. The bed’s prepared in the spare room; hopefully the dreams will be easier tonight.”

“I can go back to my quarters,” Crow says, setting his mug down. “You don’t need to—”

“The HELM is quite a distance,” Osiris cuts in, “and I could use your help reviewing the early batch of Cabal transmissions in the morning. It would save me some time if you stayed.”

It’s a technique he picked up from Saint for dealing with Crow, framing a suggestion as a favor, and he’s relieved to see it hasn’t failed him yet when Crow nods. “If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Osiris promises. “Down the hallway—”

“Second door on the left,” Crow says. “I remember.” He yawns as he pushes himself to his feet and Osiris is struck again by the dark circles under his eyes. Not for the first time, he wonders if Crow is telling him everything about his dreams. “Wake me if any new intel comes in overnight?”

“Of course.”

He waits for Crow to depart and lets out a yawn of his own as the door to the lounge closes behind him. His hand aches a little from trying to capture all the key parts of Crow’s dream and he scowls at his own handwriting before flipping back through the notebook to find the record of his own dream from the previous week. 

It had been much shorter than Crow’s, just a glimpse he’d almost disregarded as irrelevant, but as he reads back over his notes, Osiris can’t help the shiver that runs through him at the memory.  


—|—

  
The torn sky of the Reef seems darker than usual as Osiris makes his way to Spider’s lair.

The Fallen give him a wide berth, engaged in a skirmish with the Scorn up ahead, but Osiris’ pace falters when he slips past the barrier to Spider’s safehouse only to be greeted by the sight of two heads staked out as trophies. 

He recognises the first, the familiar skull of the High Celebrant, but it takes him a second to identify the lump of decaying flesh on the other pike. It’s the mask that gives it away, the rebreather constantly fixed to the face of the Shore’s ruler, and Osiris takes a step back in horror. 

The head is relatively fresh — he’d guess no more than a week or two old — and he doesn’t know whether it’s the smell or the sight that turns his stomach more. He hadn’t heard anything from the City about a coup on the Shore but as he collects himself and presses onward, he finds himself hoping Crow’s new master is a better one than his last.

A shudder of unease catches him as he moves through the corridors, as though he forgot something, or left something out of place. The thought is an elusive one, slipping from his grasp like a shadow, and by the time he approaches the throne room, it’s almost gone entirely.

The arc pikes of the two guards flare bright in the darkness and Osiris holds his hands up as he says, “I’m here to see the Spider.”

The guards exchange glances, and Osiris corrects himself, “Or whoever has replaced him. I come on business from the Tower.”

The pikes part, granting access, and Osiris is grateful for the cover of his cowl as he steps through into the inner sanctum. 

Spider’s throne is still there, the hulking frame taking up most of the room, but Osiris’ eyes go wide when he sees its new occupant. 

Crow is sprawled across it. He’s tiny compared to Spider’s bulk but he carries himself with no less confidence than his predecessor when he waves to the guards in a dismissal. The rags bearing Spider’s insignia are gone, replaced with a soft black cloak which appears finer than even the prince wore, but Crow’s voice is his own as he beckons him in. “Osiris.”

Osiris nods in a gesture somewhere between a greeting and a bow. “Crow.”

Crow’s eyes shine in the dim light. However, as Osiris steps forward, there’s no mistaking the inky blackness staining his scelera, threatening to swallow up the amber glow. 

Fear winds its way between Osiris’ ribs as Crow’s lips curve in a dark smile. “Welcome to my Shore, Warlock. Are you here to make a deal?”


End file.
